


Booker Always Follows

by Caddaren (orphan_account)



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen, General Friendship - Freeform, Oneshot, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Caddaren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes  Elizabeth  fears  he  will  grow  sick  of  her  and  give  up  on  whatever  bravado  mission  he's  on,  that  he'll  succumb  to  the  mutterings  of  his  subconscious  that  rears  its  ugly  head  every  time  he  closes  his  eye  for  the  briefest  second  of  rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Booker Always Follows

**Author's Note:**

> I found this old oneshot on in my google docs. It seems to be pretty good writing to me, so I pat my past self on the back. Woooo~

He  has  a  knack  for  not  knowing  what  to  say,  or  what  do  with  his  hands  when  she  needs  him  to  set  down  his  gun  and  hold  her  somehow.  When  she  fights  back  tears  because  her  whole  life  is  torn  apart,  or  when  she  brings  him  back  from  the  brink  of  death,  dragging  him  through  unconsciousness  and  into  reality  again,  he  says  nothing,  or  maybe  grounds  out  a  "er…thanks"  before  rolling  to  his  feet  and  running  back  into  the  fight.  

She  watches  from  the  sidelines,  scrambling  to  find  a  purchase  on  sanity  while  people  drop  to  the  ground  around  her,  victims  to  the  Vox,  or  the  Founders,  or  Booker.  

Booker.  

He  needs  her  help,  more  than  he  knows.  She  scurries  around  in  scrap  heaps  and  trash  piles,  sifting  through  chests  and  underneath  vending  machines.  Anything  that  might  help  him.  "Booker!"  And  his  hand  flies  up  to  catch  what  she  throws,  quickly  finding  cover  so  he  can  either  patch  the  gaping  wound  on  his  shoulder,  or  replenish  his  Salts.  

She  is  his  lifeline,  though  many  regard  her  as  weak  instead  of  strong.  She  is  small,  it  is  true,  but  when  her  wavy  hair  fell  to  the  floor  in  thick  slashes,  following  the  trail  her  tears  so  often  took,  Elizabeth  decided  she  would  not  be  weak,  and  certainly  not  let  anyone  see  it.  

But  he  sees  it  anyways.  In  the  moments  where  they  had  just  enough  room  to  breathe  between  their  bodies  and  their  rushing  minds  beneath  their  hiding  places  of  rotting  wood  and  rusting  tin  roofs.  It  is  not  cold  in  Columbia,  the  nights  are  mild  yet  they  find  the  air  chilly  to  the  touch,  any  bare  skin  erupting  in  gooseflesh  once  the  sun  dropped.  They  take  comfort  in  the  way  their  breath  mingles  when  they  turn  their  heads  to  look  at  each  other,  saying  nothing  but  seeing  all  the  insecurities  and  worries  and  discomfort  and  pain  and  regret  and  longing  and  lust  for  the  past  in  all  its  sadistic  untouchability,  for  an  unreachable  peace,  for  a  glorified  death  of  "going  out  with  a  bang",  for…  each  other?

No.  

Booker.

She  needs  his  help,  more  than  she  knows.  He  is  her  power,  her  free-willed  puppet  to  shoulder  his  way  through  doors,  pull  a  trigger,  take  lives,  curse  the  Songbird  and  Comstock  in  one  breath  when  her  words  fail  her.  He  pulls  her  to  her  feet  once  the  danger  is  gone,  dusting  off  her  coat  shoulders  and  giving  her  a  look  she  has never  been  able  to  label.  

He  is  cocksure,  but  paranoid,  constantly  searching  for  loot  amongst  the  bodies  he's  killed  and  the  machines  they  run  across.  She  doesn't  understand  his  obsession  with  money,  but  she  does  see  the  benefits  of  the  weapon  upgrades  he  can  buy.  Elizabeth  stands  there,  helping  him  assemble  the  new  weaponry  and  ignoring  his  grunt  of  protest  claiming  "I  can  do  it  myself"  despite  the  fact  he  doesn't  understand  a  damn  thing  about  Columbian  technology.  She  notices  the  scars  littering  the  flesh  of  his  forearms  as  she  fastens  a  Sky-Hook  onto  his  hard  muscles  and  tightens  the  buckles  with  as  much  force  as  she  can  muster.  Booker  still  has  to  use  his  right  hand  to  adjust  the  straps,  but  she  tried,  and  he  is  not  completely  thankless  for  her  help.  

She  still  does  not  trust  him,  even  after  following  him  around  for  a  few  days.  Perhaps  it  is  only  natural  for  her  to  be  hopeful,  but  suspicious,  and  perhaps  she  cannot  help  it.  But  when  she  looks  at  him,  Elizabeth  knows  he  will  do  his  best  to  keep  her  safe,  even  though  she's  not  quite  sure  what  his  motives  are.  She  is  wary…  but  she  doesn't  want  to  be.  

He  may  not  be  able  to  speak  eloquently,  but  when  he  talks,  Elizabeth's  listens.  She  listens  because  he  is  the  only  one  that  has  ever  been  honest  with  him,  and  dammit  if  she  doesn't  kind  of  like  him  more  for  being  so  plainly  cruel  and  truthful  instead  of  sugarcoating  because  her  whole  life  has  been  honeyed  up  and  glazed  over.  She  likes  him,  Booker  DeWitt,  but  she  isn't  sure  if  it's  safe  to  do  so.  

Sometimes  Elizabeth  fears  he  will  grow  sick  of  her  and  give  up  on  whatever  bravado  mission  he's  on,  that  he'll  succumb  to  the  mutterings  of  his  subconscious  that  rears  its  ugly  head  every  time  he  closes  his  eye  for  the  briefest  second  of  rest.  His  eyes  say  much  more  than  he  could  possible  hope,  those  rapid,  dreamlike  movements  underneath  his  eyelids,  brow  furrowed  as  if  he  is  concentrating  or  in  pain.  Elizabeth  wants  to  know  what  he's  dreaming  of,  even  though  she  knows  it  will  frighten  her  terribly.  

It  is  those  eyes  that  she  trusts  the  most.  Those  eyes  and  that  mouth.  For  while  the  mouth  shouts  curse  words  as  she  kneels  next  to  him  in  the  dark  of  an  alley,  faces  and  bodies  only  lit  up  by  the  moon  overhead,  his  eyes  speak  volumes,  glinting  with  the  silver  light.  He  swears  under  his  breath  as  her  fingers  prod  the  wounds  covering  his  sides  and  his  face,  looking  for  a  way  to  help  him  heal.  

Help.  

Booker  hates  help,  but  he  does  not  hate  her.  

His  eyes  show  that,  and  they  had  shown  that from  the  first  time  they  met  in  the  tower. When she had run away from him, away from his guns, the yelling, the groaning of the metal ribs of her tower, the tearing of metal. Doors opened, she fled, Booker followed.

Booker always follows.

He is obedient, more loyal than a hound and with more bark too. He seems gruff, but the callouses on his thumbs did not hurt her when he hesitantly reached up to wipe the stray tears of her eyes that first night, huddled into each other's sides for comfort, even though they did not know each other. She looked up at him, scared and distrustful and hesitant, but he met her eyes and she was content to fall asleep, hoping he wouldn't be gone from her side when she woke up.

He had moved away while she slept, and when Elizabeth yawned and stretched and sat up, she was cold and alone in their borrowed shack. His back blocked the sun from steaming through the gaping hole that is labelled as a doorway, of sorts, even if they had to crawl to get through it and neither could stand up past their knees once inside.

It is a shelter made of creaking metal and thick boards, small and square, but it is hidden away from the rest of the world and the approaching daylight snuck through the cracks between the roof and the sidings, filling her morning with soft light. She dares say she likes it, even as her eyes were drawn to the rip on the back of his jacket.

Perhaps she could mend it for him somehow, even if he lurches away from the gentle contact when he first notices it. She snorts and reasons with him, knowing he’s just being difficult for the sake of being difficult. He is a man of few words, and this is where such a taciturn trait fails him. He gives up before she is even into the second part of her rant, and caves to the feeling of her little fingers flitting over his shoulder in curiosity. Grumbling, Booker turns his head away and adjusts the hook blade on his left arm. But he does not pull away from her.

Sometimes, Booker makes her smile. He makes her smile when he talks of bringing her to Paris, of breaking her out and helping her be free. He promises, touches her arm occasionally, reminds her of their plans whenever things seem to be going wrong. His voice is raspy when he yells to her “Elizabeth!” and then he’s charging back out. He makes her smile sometimes, but he shouldn’t because she knows he’s dangerous and rough around the edges and grumpy and certain not the type of person she should feel comfortable around. But dammit if he makes her feel safe, as safe as she could possibly feel running from her own father.

When  the  Songbird  takes  her  away,  back  to  the  tower,  back  to  her  old  life,  she  cries.  Cries  because  she  has  no  idea  what  is  going  to  happen  to  her,  or  what  her  father  wants  of  her.  Cries  because  she  has  the  power  to  bring  different  realities  to  and  fro,  bend  them  to  her  will,  but  she  can't  even  seem  to  fix  her  own.  When  the  Songbird  takes  her  back  to  her  tower,  Elizabeth  cries  because  she  thinks  she  has  lost  him,  her  strength.  

But Booker does not stop until he finds her again, laying there on an operating table. She has never seen him so angry, not since she met him, the expression he held terrifying her and the scientists around her. For the first time, he lets her take her own revenge. The siphons broken. The tear opened. A hold around her shoulders, a message in her hand. She is shaken, and he is sturdy. She leans heavily against him.

“I plan do it for what Comstock put you through,” he says, arm still around her until she finds her feet, and then she is determined, strengthened by his presence and his words. He is careful with her, but she trusts him now, more than she will ever admit to. She trusts him enough to offer her freedom in exchange for her life, hoping and praying he would come for her.

Booker.


End file.
